


The First of December

by jarenshapadackllins



Series: 25 Days of Destiel [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 25 Days of Destiel, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, Hand Jobs, Jason Manns is just kind of there, Kissing, Like lots of it, M/M, singer!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 11:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5332115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarenshapadackllins/pseuds/jarenshapadackllins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Roadhouse is decorated floor to ceiling, screaming <i>Christmas</i>! at anyone who walks through the door. Castiel laughs to himself, since today is the first of December. He shouldn’t have put it above the Harvelle’s to wait any longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First of December

**Author's Note:**

> **This piece is not beta read.**

Castiel should’ve known the weatherman would be wrong.

He stumbles into Harvelle’s Roadhouse with snow flurrying in behind him. A _whoosh_ of cold air blows over everyone in the room and they turn to look briefly before returning to their original task. It’s Friday night, and the House is usually pretty packed, but tonight it’s filled to the brim with rowdy groups of friends, the usual loners, and teenagers who know they won’t get carded here. Castiel just shuts the door and kicks the snow off the bottom of his shoes.

The Roadhouse is decorated floor to ceiling, screaming _Christmas!_ at anyone who walks through the door. Castiel laughs to himself, since today is the first of December. He shouldn’t have put it above the Harvelle’s to wait any longer.

Red lights are strung all around the ceiling’s borders, lining all the doors and windows. A stout tree stands in the corner, albeit slightly lopsided, near the bar with white lights and ornaments adorning the branches. It’s all very Christmassy, and it’s all very Jo.

“Hey Cas!” He looks up and, speak of the devil, Jo is standing with her elbows on the bartop, resting her chin on her knuckles.

“Hello,” Castiel says with a smile as he walks closer.

“We brought out the holiday menu today,” She starts making up a drink before Castiel says anything else, but he guesses his nightly order of gin and tonic has Jo falling into a routine.

“Your favorite,” he laughs and slides his jacket off, draping it over the back of the seat and sits down.

“Awh, hell, there’s no more lime. I’ll be right back, okay?” Jo escapes into the kitchen, and Castiel moves to pull his phone out from his pocket.

A low, rugged voice comes over a speaker. The volume is loud enough for the whole house to hear but soft enough for customers to continue conversation, and the languid voice pours over the room with an indistinguishable accent. Castiel can tell he’s from Kansas, but there’s something hidden that he can’t pinpoint.

“Evening, everyone,” the man clears his throat and Castiel tries to see where the voice is coming from. “I’m Dean, and this is my li’l brother, Sammy,” he pauses, and Castiel assumes it’s for his brother. “And this is our old friend, Jason. We’re gonna sings some songs for y’all tonight.”

Sporadic claps erupt from the crowd until it’s all a harmony, with a few whistles and calls. Castiel is just itching to find out where this gravely-velvety voice is.

Jo returns with a metal container full of fresh cut limes. She continues mixing up Castiel’s drink, but he pays her no attention. There’s no stage, and Castiel thinks he’s being discreet while stretching the horde of people to find the man.

“Lookin’ for Dean?” She asks knowingly. “You know, he came in here before we opened to solidify plans and such. Right when I saw him I knew, I _knew_ you would be up his ass.”

“I am _not_ up his ass!” Castiel turns to her and frowns.

“Yeah, yeah,” she slides the well-mixed drink over the top and he catches it, placing it on a napkin so it won’t leave a ring on the wood.

Castiel swirls his drink and watches as bits of lime spin around, being pulled down into the twirls of liquor. It’s almost hypnotizing. Almost.

 _“Oh!_ Have a holly jolly Christmas!”

The laughter among the musicians echos through the room, and the cheer is spread into the crowd as they sing along with him. Some are actually attempting to drunkenly sing in key, while the groups in the booths are standing and waving their beers in the air, shouting out the lyrics out of key and out of time.

Castiel hadn’t noticed when Jo left the bar, but she’s standing next to him and tugging at his sleeve.

“C’mon,” she pulls at the fabric until he slips off the seat and follows her to the back near the booths. There, he can see the band clearly.

All three of them are seated in a line on wooden stools. The tallest of the trio, who Castiel assumes is Sam (mostly because he just _looks_ like a Sam), sits on the end, strumming away at a bass guitar. In Castiel’s opinion, the boy’s hair is too long, but it _does_ suit him. His hands move naturally over the strings, and Castiel listens for the bass to match up with Sam’s thin fingers.

Cas believes the one on the opposite end to be Jason. He’s wearing a green knit beanie with three small white letters embroidered on the side, letters that Castiel can’t make out from a distance. He looks content as he plucks at the string of his guitar, his eyes shut and mouth hidden against the microphone as he sings fitting harmonies.

And last, most certainly not least, is Dean, center stage with a soft red spotlight overhead. Castiel is entranced by the way his plush lips move around each word, how he breaks into a smile whenever someone decides to join in song, how he looks so comfortable on stage, and how his eyes glisten when he looks at Castiel.

Woah, _what_.

It feels like a chain holding them together -- it can’t and it won’t break. Dean has gone from flicking his eyes from group to group to just staring down Castiel, still singing in his goddamn _beautiful_ voice.

“Ho, ho the mistletoe,” Jason sings.

“Hung where you can see!” The crowd in front responds gleefully.

“Somebody waits for you,” Sam takes over, and there’s a pause -- an acapella solo -- for Dean.

“Kiss him once for me,” Dean winks at Castiel and suddenly the gaze is broken.

“ _Oh!_ ”

The music continues and the crowd gets wilder and wilder as the drinks keep coming to each table.

“Oh my god,” Jo feigns puking as she walks past Cas and back to the bar, leaving her friend alone.

Castiel doesn’t know how long he stands there, listening, watching. What he does know is that he and Dean made eye contact _at least_ seven times. Dean announces that they’re taking a break and the microphone turns off, a holiday radio station quickly flooding the room with cheery, lively, studio-recorded music. The boys escape into a hallway that Castiel knows leads into a few first floor bedrooms, and Dean glances over his shoulder before he walks in and closes the door behind him.

With nothing better to do, Castiel returns to the bar and takes the seat his jacket held for him, his gin and tonic untouched on the counter. Jo assures him that nothing’s in it before he drinks it -- all of it -- and orders some whiskey.

“He’s not straight,” Jo says bluntly as she hands him his second round, slapping a candy cane beside the glass. Castiel tilts his head at her and she rolls her eyes. “Dean. This isn’t the first time he’s been here. I’ve seen him talking it up with girls _and_ boys.”

Although there wasn’t much of a doubt in his mind about it, Jo’s confession gives Castiel a little more confidence.

“I’m pretty sure he’s single, too,” Jo gives Castiel a suggestive look, then glances back to the closed hallway door. “I can get you special access, you know. Early Christmas present.”

“Yeah,” Castiel laughs. “I know. That’s not necessary, but thank you, Jo.”

After a while of sitting and drinking, Castiel is starting to feel the fuzzy effects of the alcohol burning his throat and sitting in his stomach. He stands, admittedly loses his footing briefly, and walks back to where he was before, where Dean saw him, and waits for the band to return.

The people come and go, those who left being replenished by newcomers. They order rounds at the bar and socialize with people they’ve never met. Watching them makes Castiel wish to be somewhat of a social butterfly. Maybe that way he’d have the guts to talk to Dean.

“Y’know, I think the lighting up there is pretty unflattering,” a dark voice startles Castiel; he hadn’t heard anyone walk up to him. He turns to look at the source, the dim lighting making Castiel alcohol-fuzzed vision slightly worse, but it doesn’t take him long to recognize the face -- to match the voice.

“Dean Winchester,” he, Dean, hold out a hand to Castiel. He tentatively takes it, and isn’t expecting to be forcefully pulled closer until Dean’s breath is hot against his ear. “I still got fifteen minutes, why don’t we order some drinks and talk?”

Castiel nods hastily and follows Dean back to the bar. The musician orders two drinks Castiel has never even heard of, but Jo understands Dean, so he doesn’t think much about it. With two drinks in hand, Dean nods back to the open door he disappeared behind before.

They walk through a small group of people playing pool beside the gig setup, all of them patting Dean’s back and saying a friendly ‘hello.’ Castiel wonders if Dean’s local and _how_ in the name of God has he not seen him yet?

Cas walks in first, a subtle wave of cigarette smoke and stale beer wafting through the air. He can see the light from under one of the doors, but the other two are dark, and Dean pushes open one with his knee and flicks on the light with his elbow. He sets the drinks down on a side table and turns to face Castiel.

“So, blue-eyes, got a name?” He saunters forward, taking one of Castiel’s hands in his and linking each of their fingers together and he’s being very forward but _christ_ it feels _so good_.

“Castiel,” he nearly stutters. “Castiel Novak.”

“Castiel? That’s… beautiful,” Dean examines Castiel’s face, bringing his other hand up to trace his jaw from ear to chin, and maybe Cas should feel nervous or intimidated, but he doesn’t. Dean is being so damn gentle. “What brings you here, Castiel?”

Hearing his name in Dean’s voice is making him weak and he tightens his grip slightly on Dean’s hand. “I-I usually come here on nights off. Ellen and Jo are my friends,” Castiel stares at Dean’s eyes. They’re so _green_. Speckles of gold shine through each, and it’s something Castiel has never seen and it’s gorgeous beyond comprehension.

“Well, Cas,” Dean is watching Castiel, and he can see that Dean is checking for boundaries. Currently, Castiel really doesn’t think he has any. Not with Dean. “I’ve never seen you around,” he let’s his thumb slide over Castiel’s lower lip, still subtly looking between Cas’ eyes and his own hand for reassurance.

The gesture and sentiment together nearly brings Castiel to his knees.

“Hey, Dean, three minutes!” Sam shouts from outside the door. Cas can see the disappointment in Dean’s eyes, but the man doesn’t move yet.

“Stay after the show,” he says softly. “Please?”

Castiel only nods, Dean’s thumb still resting on his lip.

“ _Dean!_ ” Two unison voices call urgently. He takes the pad of his finger off Castiel’s chapped lips, his eyes still fixed where his thumb once was. Cas is far more than eager to feel Dean’s lips against his own, and if they feel just as soft as they look.

“Meet me here,” Dean’s voice is a hush, riding on warm breath Castiel hadn’t realized Dean had been holding. With that simple request, he leaves the room, and Castiel, for the smoke-hazed Roadhouse bar.

Cas doesn’t end up walking back out to the house. He sits on the old bed, springs squeaking quietly beneath him, and it reminds him of the motels he would stay in while on short business trips. The Roadhouse is much cleaner though, which is really no surprise. Ellen likes things neat and tidy.

Holiday-esque music travels through the air and into the room, the sounds of soft voices and instruments slowly lulling him into a sort of daze. The door remains open, just as Dean had left it, and Castiel’s glad he let it be. He’s comfortable where he is, leaning his back against the wall and his feet just dangling off the side of the bed. The drinks remain untouched on the table beside him, leaving pools of condensation on the wood surface.

He chooses to leave them there until Dean returns.

 

Castiel’s woken up by the faint sound of the door shutting, and his eyes flutter open to see Dean ruffling through a suitcase in the corner of the room. He strips off the black t-shirt and tosses it aside, and Cas believes it’s currently in his best interest to _not_ make his consciousness known.

Dean grabs a pair of flannel pants along with a new t-shirt and stands. He rolls his shoulders back and rocks his head from side to side, sighing contently as his muscles loosen and relax. Castiel watches as he places the clothes on the old dresser and reaches back, massaging his shoulders and whispering quiet ‘ow’s.

So Castiel picks up an abandoned drink from the table, still wet and cold, and stands up. The floorboards creak under his weight and Dean glances back, a small smile gracing his lips.

“I had a feeling you were awake,” he reaches for the shirt and bunches it up until he can slip his arms into the sleeves, but Castiel reaches out a hand to stop him.

“Wait,” he steps closer, pressing the dripping glass into Dean’s hand. From this short a distance, Castiel can see the beads of sweat on his forehead and temples and how a few strands of his hair stick down to his skin. “Allow me.”

Dean gives him a questioning look, but he takes a long sip of his drink before letting Castiel direct him to the bed.

“Sit,” he instructs, waiting until Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed before climbing on behind him and sitting back on his heels. He unbuttons his shirt sleeves and pushes them up to his elbows before leaning forward.

Cas used to be something like the personal masseuse of the track team when he was back in high school. Before he did it for everyone, he would sit in the locker room with his teammates after a meet and roll out the knots in their legs and backs. Hopefully he still has somewhat of a touch.

He rests his hands on Dean’s shoulders, the thin layer of sweat sticky against his skin, and runs his palms over the muscles.

“You’re very tense,” he mutters, watching intently as his hands examine the expanse of skin and muscles before him, deciding where to begin. He chooses Dean’s neck, and his thumbs begin kneading at tight knots near his spine. “Are you always like this after shows?”

The moan Dean exhales in response makes Castiel pause briefly, his body short-circuiting, and he bites the inside of his lip. He continues, and so does Dean.

Once Castiel is satisfied with his work on Dean’s neck, he moves to his shoulders, dragging his hands across his skin before settling with the tips of his fingers reaching Dean’s collarbone and his palm resting on his shoulder blade. He stays like that for a moment, relishing in the heat of Dean’s body. Dean gripes quietly, urging Castiel to continue, so he moves his fingers across the muscles of Dean’s shoulders, pressing and massaging from the outside in until he reaches either side of his spine. There, Castiel uses his thumbs to gently rub at the twisted muscles.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” Castiel says almost in a whisper, and Dean lets out a laugh.

“Cas, this feels _fuckin’ amazing_ ,” he groans loudly as Castiel kneads out the worst of the knots, and these noises are becoming straight up _orgasmic_ and Cas doesn’t know how much more he can take. “Oh, god, _don’t stop_.”

Castiel shifts on his legs, feeling the onslaught of a boner, which is really inopportune at the moment, because now he can’t focus. At all. Dean keeps getting louder and louder, and Cas thinks he’s doing it just to spite him. Possibly for revenge. Of what? He doesn’t know. Just revenge.

He must hit a particularly sensitive spot, because the next thing Dean says is:

“Oh, _fuck_! Cas, _christ_!”

And Castiel has had enough.

“I-I believe this would work better if you laid down,” Castiel scoots away, letting his hands fall to the bed. Dean turns around to look at Cas, and his eyes are brimming with hunger and edged with triumph. Dean’s so close to breaking down all of Castiel’s self control, and he very well knows it.

Dean lies on his stomach, folding his arms beneath his head and watching Castiel out of the corner of his eye. He simply picks up where he left off, pressing down unto the stiff muscles in Dean’s lower back, eliciting none other than Dean’s euphoric grunts and moans. They’re sticking in Castiel’s head like a mantra, and he’s going to go mad.

“Oh, _yeah_ , Cas. Right there,” Dean chews on his lip, and at this point Castiel can’t tell whether he’s actually enjoying the massage or he’s truly trying to torture Cas. The effect must be obvious to Dean, because the tenting happening in Castiel’s pants is very obvious and very unmistakeable.

“ _Dean_ ,” the name escapes Castiel’s lips in a soft moan without warning and Castiel’s hands stop in surprise. Dean only laughs lowly as he turns to lay on his back instead, staring at Castiel as he holds his hands in front of him.

Cas wants to do everything and nothing all at once. He wants to run, not away from Dean, but the adrenaline rushing through his veins is overwhelming. He wants to kiss Dean slowly, taste every bit of him until it is all committed to memory. He wants to kiss Dean roughly, hear the smack of lips and feel clumsy tongues against each other.

Before he has a chance to choose, Dean places his hands on Castiel’s hips and pulls him over until he’s straddling Dean’s waist. His hands fall on Dean’s chest, the press of his fingers leaving white dots on freckled skin. Castiel forgets about everything, everything except the green of Dean’s eyes, the hunger that gave way to lust, to desire, to _longing_. Dean’s mouth falls slack and his plump lips look so goddamn _kissable_.

So Castiel dips down until he’s mere inches away from Dean, their short, hot breaths colliding in the space between -- a space Castiel wishes to close _very_ soon.

Dean’s fingers move slowly from Castiel’s waist to the edge of his shirt, pulling it out from where it is tucked and slipping his hand beneath the thin fabric. The cool touch against his burning skin sends a shiver through his body and he lets out a stifled moan and arches his back into Dean’s touch.

Cas can feel Dean’s hips move beneath his, the first slide of friction against his hard cock quickly turning his quiet moans into a loud gasp. Tilts his head back as they fall in tandem, Castiel grinding down onto Dean as he rolls back into the movement.

Castiel seizes the opportunity in front of him and leans down, pressing wet kisses to Dean’s neck. He sucks a red-purple mark onto the warm, supple skin just below his ear, tasting the subtle, salty sweat from the night’s performance.

“Fuck, Cas,” Dean moves his free hand from Castiel’s waist into his hair, tugging slightly until he lifts his head to look at Dean. His eyes are dark and wild, his lower lip red from biting. “Just _kiss_ _me_.”

The hard press of lips is completely and utterly intoxicating. Castiel doesn’t know if it’s him or Dean that lets out an absolutely _obscene_ moan because he’s just so lost against Dean. Between the harmonious grind of their hard cocks and the slide of spit-slick lips, Castiel is adrift in a new world -- Heaven, maybe.

It isn’t long before the two of them are ripping at the remainder of each others clothes in a frenzied quest for skin on skin. Neither could care less of where the articles end up, so long as they are _off_.

The moment each of them are naked, they pause to take in the sight of one another. Castiel, still seated on Dean’s lap, looks behind him at the smooth bow of Dean’s legs; looks down at the stiff, throbbing, leaking dick beside his own; looks up at the adoration in Dean’s expression, sheer bewilderment akin to Castiel’s own. He can’t help but lean down and place a tender kiss to Dean’s swollen lips.

It grows to be more. It’s a kiss full of emotion -- longing. Dean’s fingers thread through Castiel’s mussed hair, both hands tangled and pulling him in as close as possible. Castiel doesn’t think there is a single inch of their skin that isn’t touching, and it feels amazing. Castiel reaches between them, taking both their cocks in his hand, slicked with drops of each others precome, and falls into rhythm with their languid kisses.

Somehow, their steamy, rough frotting-through-clothing turned into something warm and delicate. Each kiss, each stroke of Castiel’s hand, it all _means something_. What that something is will take some time to figure out, and Castiel prays to a deity above that Dean wants that just as much as he does.

It doesn’t take long for Castiel to come over his hand and Dean’s stomach, white spurts painting warm skin.

“Oh,” Castiel sighs against Dean’s lips. “Oh, _Dean_.”

That must’ve been enough to have Dean follow suit, letting go of his own load onto Castiel’s hand as well as himself. He wraps his arms around Castiel’s shoulders and pulls him into a hard kiss, muffling his low whimpers against Castiel’s lips.

 

The two of them end up with limbs twisted together beneath the heavy covers, fighting the cold December draft from the window, with both their heads resting on one pillow. They’re face to face, one or the other leaning in every once in a while to press lazy kisses to the other’s lips. Dean had turned out the light before the snuggled under the covers, the colorful icicle lights that line the Roadhouse’s roof flickering and dotting their skin with rainbows.

“Haven’t felt like that in…” Dean takes a deep breath and lowers his eyes, his lashes fluttering bashfully. “Ever.”

“Yeah,” Cas sighs contently. He reaches around under the covers until he finds Dean’s hand and entwines their fingers, reveling in the way their fingers lock together perfectly and the warmth of their pressed palms.

It must be fairly late, because the Christmas lights outside go out, and now only the ghostly blue of the moonlight pouring through the window illuminates their faces.

Castiel sits up, ignoring Dean’s protests, and looks to the window above their heads. Snow is falling silently to the ground and sticking the the windowsill. A light dust of white is already covering the ground, and Castiel excitedly turns to Dean.

“Dean,” he tugs at the man’s arm. “Dean, look. It’s snowing.”

Dean sits up, wrapping one arm around Castiel’s waist and looking out the window at the barren landscape. The Roadhouse is so incredibly isolated from the rest of town, but that’s what makes it beautiful. Stars twinkle brightly against the navy sky, and it soon becomes difficult to discern between stars and snow and the specks fall harder and harder.

Castiel lays back, letting Dean wrap his arms over his chest and pull him closer. The heat between them is so comforting and the snowfall is so mesmerizing, Castiel nearly misses the soft kisses Dean peppers across his neck.

If they were to be snowed in by morning, Castiel would be okay with that.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed my little fic! This is the beginning of my 25 Days of Destiel series, and I will (hopefully) be posting one piece each day until Christmas!  
> I will be updating progress and when/whether or not I will be posting a new fic on my [tumblr](www.goodheavenscastiel.tumblr.com). The plan is to have varying lengths with a minimum of 500 words. Okay, I'll stop rambling. Thanks again!


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